


The Last Dragon

by LukasJames



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Humour, Other, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, Rhaegar Targaryen Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukasJames/pseuds/LukasJames
Summary: The Targaryen dynasty has been crushed by Robert Baratheon. But unfortunately for him, their leader has returned from the dead, and won't stop until gets back everything Robert took from him. But first, he has to see about a bastard.A story in which Rhaegar is resurrected and vows to take back everything.
Relationships: Bronn & Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	1. Prologue

Prologue

Inn at the Crossroads

6 years after Roberts Rebellion

The inn was packed. Filled with soldiers from everywhere, returning to their families. You saw Lannister colours, Tully colours, Golden roses, stags and even a few direwolves. At the centre of it, all was King Robert Baratheon, telling stories and jokes, all while drinking and groping the barmaid. Bronn leaned against a post, sipping quietly at his beer. He hated soldiers, men who thought they were higher than mightier than the gods themselves. Not him. He knew who he was. Nothing more than an honourless killer. At least he had the fucking decency. He gave up trying to be a wartime hero the day he was born. That just wasn’t the lifestyle for him. Also, he’d rather be protecting some lord, instead of wiping their ass.   
“And then, I turn to the fucker.” Robert boomed to the group of men who were listening. “I turn to him and ask, “Who do you think you are, huh? Some fucking halfwit with a death wish? And he turns back around and raising that eyebrow we’ve all seen, and says, “Your grace, have you seen my hand?” and he shows me the stump.” The men around the groaned in disgust, as the cripple the king spoke of chuckled, the drink influencing his attitude. “God, that was a fierce war. If there’s one good thing that war brought us, it was blood pumping through our veins.” The king raised his cup. “To those snivelling Ironborn!”   
The inn cheered and laughed and the king continued to drink, and drink. “How about you, your grace?” Ser Barristan asked. “You got any battle scars we should know about?” Robert downed his entire cup before burping and laughing. “Plenty, Ser Barristan. Some from the rebellion and some from the queen.” Robert chuckled, to a collection of both gasps and laughter.   
“I remember my first real scar. I was about 12. You remember this story, Jon?” Robert turned to the hand.   
“How could I ever forget it?” Jon smiled.   
“Right. So I was a big boy growing up, not as big as I am now, but bigger than most of the other boys I trained with. Now he was a small lad, Kyle Royce. Skinny and quiet. He mostly kept to himself. One day I decided to practice with him, see if the boy had some secret talent under that bubble of his. So I take a couple of swings and he dodges out of the way before they hit him. The boy was quick. He tired me out, and right when he had me, he struck me real hard, right across the kneecap. Gods it hurt. I thought he’d broken a bone. I collapsed to the floor and start cursing the gods. There’s a lot of blood, a lot. The Royce lad, he’s calling for a maester to come look at my knee, all the while I’m trying not to pass out, which I eventually do. When I wake up, finally after almost 2 days, Ned’s standing over me, shaking his head. “You poor bastard.” he says.”  
“Whatever happened to the Royce boy?” Selmy asked. “Did he go on to other ventures?”  
Robert shook his head. “He died protecting Brandon Stark.” This sentence was followed by a moment of silence from the members of the small group. 

Bronn rested his hand against the wall as he emptied his bladder. The wine had gone through him like he was a sheet. He had at least hoped to gain some employment here, what with all these lords and knights hanging about, he would have someone approach him in the request of protection. And yet the only person here who truly needed protection was him, from saying the wrong thing to someone as high and mighty as the king of the bouncing gut back there. Indeed it had not been the night Bronn had expected, but it was fine. When he had finished his business, he pulled up his pants and drunkenly staggered forward towards the inn, only to find himself faceplant into the dirt. He was far too drunk to be given the privilege of bloody walking. Digging his fingernails into his palm, he formed a fist and pushed himself back up, using the strength in his shoulder to hold himself, then the strength of his throat to not let the tiny bit of vomit he had forming in his throat spill out. Kneeling on one knee, Bronn stumbled forward taking heavy breaths. The ever-so faint sound of footsteps echoing and growing louder in his mind. Before he knew it, a blonde knight was standing before him, looking down at him, what appeared to be a smirk on his face. “Having fun?” the knight asked, patting a drunk Bronn on the shoulder.   
“Yeah, I-” Bronn began before puking on the floor, around the knight’s boots.   
“Oh, disgusting.” The knight mumbled before wiping his feet on the ground. Giving Bronn a disapproving look, he headed inside.   
“Nice to meet you. Let’s do this again sometime.” Bronn spluttered. 

Robert poured himself another drink, as the inn continued to get rowdier. The king was now the furthest thing from sober and the slurring of his words became more frequent. Why the people thought this was okay, Jamie had no idea. He didn’t see the man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident all those years ago, all he saw was a fat drunk with no honour whatsoever.   
“Kingslayer!” Robert belched. “What brings you to this hellhole?” Jamie tried to smile, while underneath he was irritated and tired. “My father just wanted to know what time we planned to leave tomorrow, your grace. Everything has been prepared for the tourney.”  
“Wonderful!” Robert shouted. “Sit down, have a drink Kingslayer.” Jamie grinded his teeth together. “Your Grace, the offer is generous, but-”   
“Have a drink, or I’ll force it down your throat,” Robert growled, hands around the barmaid’s breasts. Reluctantly, Jamie took a cup of wine. “Much better.” Robert nodded, before shortly returning to fondling the woman on his lap. 

Bronn dunked his head into the pail of water, clearing his head. He hoped he’d gotten most of the alcohol out of his system. Things were still blurred, but he could tell that he was around the camp the royal party set up. Perhaps he could find some business here. At the very least make some connections. Plenty of Lannisters here and Lannisters were richer than the king, iron bank and every citizen of King’s Landing combined. They say Tywin Lannister shits gold, so they won’t be running out anytime soon. The camp had thousands of all with men bustling back and forth, drunk. It was indeed a wild night. He spent hours talking to people, but he had no takers. Not a single person requested the help of a sellsword. No one needed protection. Sulking, Bronn walked out to the woods. It usually only took one job to keep him fed and entertained, but jobs were harder to find nowadays. He missed it back when all it took was to say you could protect a farmer from poachers for half of his pay, and the farmer would take the protection no questions asked. Bronn thought back to his first kill. Some whore that tried to kill him. After that, he got a taste for killing and realised he could put a price on someone’s life. Then he met the man who trained him, he never got his name but taught him most of the skills he knew today. His thoughts were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Bronn jumped at the scream and drew his sword, sprinting towards the source of the scream. When he got there, he saw the person who screamed was a girl, about 6 or so. The expression on her face was one of pure terror. What had she seen?   
“Stay here,” Bronn told the girl. Keeping his sword up, the sellsword took careful steps as he walked. As he approached the Trident, he realised just where he was.; the ruby ford. The place where Robert Baratheon bashed in the dragon’s chest. What the hell was the girl doing up here? As he began to lower his sword and head back to the girl to take her to camp, he saw it. A man floating in the stream. Bloody and beaten, stuck on a rock. Someone had been killed. Without thinking, Bronn dropped his sword and began to swim towards the corpse, that was face down in the water. He fought the current and grabbed onto the rock, catching his breath. He saw the man was wearing armour and grabbed the space between the armour and the man’s neck. Pulling him along the river, he felt his legs start to freeze in the cold water. The man became increasingly heavy, but he was almost there. Almost at the bank, where he could see if he had the power to bring the man back to life. With one last heave, the two made it to the bank. Coughing up some saltwater, Bronn crawled over to the man, full intent of saving his life. That’s when he got a good look at the man. Long silver-gold hair. Deep, misty, purple eyes. The black armour with rubies in it. He hadn’t found a dead man. He’d found the most famous dead man in the history of Westeros; he’d found the last dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen. Bronn lay back down. Rhaegar Targaryen’s body was cremated. Turned to ash. Yet here his body was. Fine. Sure his chest plate was caved in, but there was no blood. Just a pale man.   
Gasping for breath, the dragon prince sat up, grabbing Bronn by the scruff.   
His face turning from anger to confusion to fear, he released his hold on Bronn.   
“What-Where-” Rhaegar whimpered, on the verge of tears. Sitting on his knees, the scared Rhaegar looked at the equally scared Bronn. 

“Who are you?”


	2. A Taste of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle, a life, and a revelation. What more is in store?

Rhaegar Targaryen

Battle of the Trident

As the hammer was swung past his face, he felt the air freshen a tad, giving him a burst of adrenaline. While a tired Baratheon attempted to lift his hammer back up, Rhaegar used the sudden energy to slash down the side of the stag. His strike was effective as he heard Robert bellow in pain. His strike upwards was less effective, only knocking Baratheon to his knees.

Coughing up some blood, Robert seemed weakened, perhaps making it easier for Rhaegar to kill him. As Rhaegar walked towards him, his body tired, his second wind disappearing. The armour wasn’t helping, only weighing him down. This slow, rough style of fighting wasn’t his style, instead preferring quick, skilful and deadly combat to this sluggish form. The fact his opponent had a weighty hammer in hand was a definite disadvantage. 

Rhaegar held the sword above his head when Robert brought his hammer around, sweeping Rhaegar’s feet. Due to the armour, Rhaegar fell quickly, the collision between the ground, his head, and the helmet was rough, causing Rhaegar's head to be cut on the dents. 

Robert slowly got back to his feet, his face full of fury and rage. Dropping the hammer, kneeled to meet Rhaegar, grabbing him by the throat and ripping off his helmet.  
“It ends now you son of a whore!” Robert spat, as he raised his fist, and brought it down on Rhaegar's jaw. The dragon closed his eyes as the punch landed, feeling the blood begin to fill his mouth. The shots continued to land, each one unleashing a new pain upon Rhaegar. He felt the life fading from him when Lyanna’s face popped into his head. He couldn’t fail her. He couldn’t die on this battlefield and leave her and his unborn child alone in this world. To have Robert slaughter his child and wife, because of him. The fire rose within him. The blood of his ancestors flowing through his veins, a mixture of anger and passion filling his soul. 

Roaring, Rhaegar grabbed a nearby stone, plunging it into the wound he’d left. Robert howled, rolling over. As the battle continued around them, the two leaders, the two kings, sat, lay near the riverbank, as fires raged, men cried out in pain for the last time, and more and more history was made. 

Rhaegar grunted as he got to his feet, grabbing his sword. He was taken by surprise when Robert tackled him back down to the stream, towards their dead steeds. The two rolled and tumbled towards the water. Robert was the first to regain his balance, standing up, hammer in hand. Rhaegar pushed himself up on his sword, both men with fire in their hearts.  
“I told you, it ends now you fucking dragon spawn.” Robert seethed. “All of it. For Lyanna.”  
Rhaegar gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, his blood boiling. “You never cared about Lyanna! She was just another woman to you. You’ve been nothing but unfaithful to her. Go home Baratheon. Your fight ended the day she chose me over you.”  
Robert let out a war cry, swinging at Rhaegar with full strength, which Rhaegar blocked. “She never chose you. You stole her from me! She loved me!” The two entered a bind of sorts after Robert swung from overhead, allowing Rhaegar to kick him off.  
“She made her decision. How many people have died because you’re an unfaithful swine? Because you felt like you had to have her? You only see her for her beauty. You’ve mistaken love for lust Robert.”

Robert charged at Rhaegar, missing him on the first attempt but swinging the hammer back, connecting with the back of Rhaegar’s head, causing Rhaegar to stumble, putting distance between the two. 

“You dare call me unfaithful, Targaryen. Tell me this, how many have died because you couldn’t keep your damned cock in your pants.” 

“Lyanna will never love you if you kill me.” Rhaegar stood still, holding his sword towards Robert.  
Robert clenched his fist. “Aye, but she will never love you again, and that’s all I need.”

Rhaegar ran at Robert, the dirty steam water splashing for each step he took. Holding his sword overhead, in both hands, Rhaegar leapt into the air, flying across the ford like a dragon. Robert grasped the hammer, swinging for Rhaegar. The two collided, as Rhaegar got knocked out of the air, the rubies on his chest plate sent flying through the air. The chest plate itself was caved in. As Rhaegar was sent down to the ground, the breath leaving his body, the last words that passed through his lips were those of the only person who’d truly understood him; 

“Lyanna.” 

Jon Snow  
Winterfell  
290 A.C

Jon woke like he would every other morning; still in desperate need of sleep. For yet another night the cries of a baby were heard, echoing down the hallways. It was to be expected, however. The newest addition of House Stark, Bran, was a very loud baby, unlike his sister Arya, who still cried, but didn’t howl as Bran did. If he had to guess he would say he’d gotten only about three hours worth of sleep last night. He wasn’t the only one suffering from sleep deficiency, as he heard the shuffling of feet, from outside his door. No doubt some more unfortunate souls suffering from the wetnurses’ failure. 

Jon had yet to meet Bran. Mostly due to Lady Stark only allowing her husband's true-born children to see Bran. Jon tried to ignore just how much it hurt but it hurt as much as all the other times. Yawning, Jon sat up, rubbing his tired eyes, before choosing his outfit for the day. Winterfell itself was pretty big, and that was just the castle. Jon’s room wasn’t big per-say, but it was big enough, what with his bed being pushed up against the wall, giving him plenty of unused space. Jon had decided to pick his casual clothes as nothing was happening today. On days where something big, like another house, visiting Winterfell, or the night's watch passing through, his father would make him wear something with a bit more class, as well as the rest of his siblings. 

The hallway was mostly empty, save for some guards. Jon made his way to the great hall, his stomach aching. With every step, he took, feeling the hunger rising.  
“Morning Snow,” Robb said, catching up to him, heavy bags under his eyes as well.  
“Robb, what’s for breakfast?” Jon asked.  
“Really? I just came to offer you a good morning, and repay that offer by asking what you can stuff your face with.” Robb shook his head. “Race you to the great hall?” He asked, stepping in front of Jon.  
Jon grinned. “You are aware I’m faster than you, right? You’re also heavier than me.”  
Robb chuckled at Jon's remark. “True, but I have a head start.”  
Robb pushed Jon back, before turning and running towards the great hall. Jon was momentarily stunned before he realised his legs should be running after him.  
Jon began to laugh as he chased after Robb, gaining speed. “Watch out Stark! You don’t stand a chance!” Jon yelled after him, legs picking up pace.  
As Jon rounded the corner, he saw Robb begin to slow, his large build working against him. Robb was still running fast, as evidenced by him almost charging straight through the old Maester Luwin, who jumped back, clutching his heart.  
“Sorry Maester Luwin!” Robb yelled, looking back at the old man.  
“Yeah, real sorry!” Jon told the old Maester as he whizzed past him.  
“Boys! No running in the halls!” Luwin called after them, causing both of them to laugh.  
Jon was now right next to Robb, and the great hall was in both of their sights. Robb put his arm out, trying to stop Jon. Desperation flew through Jon in the last few meters it seemed that Robb was going to win, when Jon jumped through the space between his arm and the floor, sliding across the floor to win. Unfortunately for Jon, the ground was hard, and he injured his shoulder landing on that rough stone.  
“Dammit!” Robb groaned. “I had you.” He pointed at Jon, before extending his hand.  
Jon took Robb’s hand, using it to help himself up. “Not at the end you didn’t.”  
Robb grimaced. “I will win. One of these days.”  
“I’ll die before that happens,” Jon smirked.  
“Boys,” Jory said, passing them.  
“Good morning Jory.” They replied simultaneously.  
The hall began to fill with more and more members of his fathers household. Breakfast was porridge, like most mornings. After breakfast, the boys left to meet up with the master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. Accompanying them was Theon, his father’s ward. Since arriving at Winterfell, Theon hadn’t said much. He would sit by himself and look sad. Jon felt kind of bad for him. In the last year, Theon had lost his brothers, his home and family. He’d been taken to an entirely new place against his will. That amount of loss would be enough to make anyone feel isolated, and Jon knew the feeling. Lady Stark hadn’t exactly welcomed him into her home with open arms. So he understood what Theon was feeling, but it didn’t mean he would tell him he felt pity for him. He felt it best to just leave the Greyjoy alone.  
“Right lads. Let’s begin.” Ser Rodrik said, handing Robb and Jon a sword each. “Practice what you learned last time. Defensive strikes and stances. Begin.”

Robb moved in on Jon, eyes shifting from Jon’s sword to his own. Watching his movements, Jon took a deep breath and took his first strike, a slash aimed at the midsection. Robb struck his sword away, the impact leaving an echo throughout the courtyard.  
“Remember Jon! Defensive stance.” Rodrik shouted at him, and Jon entered the correct position.  
Now it was Robb’s turn to strike. Aiming for Jon’s leg, Robb struck with such strength that it knocked Jon’s sword to the other side, blocking Robb’s second attack.  
“Good!” Ser Rodrik yelled proudly. “Though Robb. In a real fight, it would be more useful to attack the newly exposed area.”  
By this point, both Robb and Jon had completely tuned out. Both of them staring at each other with playful competitiveness.  
“I will strike you down!” Robb said in as deep a voice as he could muster.  
“Not if I gut you first!” Jon shouted back, charging Robb, using his speed and agility to his advantage. The swords slashed, and though wooden, moved like live steel. The two clashed, ducking out of the way when the blades came close, blocking and moving. Every time one of them came close to cornering the other, the other would put on a display of one offensive more after the other.  
“Boys! Stop this at once! We have training to do.” Ser Rodrik shouted.  
Ignoring their master-at-arms, the two continued to fight, Jon jumping over Robb’s attack at his legs.  
“Die scum!” Jon roared, the smile on his face mirroring Robb’s. Parrying yet another attack, Jon swung at Robb’s shoulder, the shot landing successfully.  
“Agh!” Robb cried, faking his pain. “My arm! You cut it off!”  
Jon grinned, holding the point of the wooden sword to Robb’s throat. “Now off with your head.”  
Drawing his back Jon made a stabbing movement, hitting Robb where his heart would be, but not before Robb picked up his sword with his “remaining” arm, and stabbed Jon in the side, causing Jon to collapse, clutching his chest.  
“I win,” Jon said.  
“True,” Robb strained his voice, making him seem out of breath. “But in the end, we both died.”  
As they hit the floor, the small chuckle of Theon Greyjoy was heard. Meanwhile, Ser Rodrik was rubbing his temples, fighting back a migraine. And from above, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell watched with a sad smile on his face.

The Hound

King’s Landing.

As he wandered the market, he let out a sigh of boredom. Peace was often boring, Sandor found. If he had it his way, he’d be out there fighting bandits or something, not cooped up in this city under orders of the queen, though it was a credit to be useful to royalty. He hated it though, this feeling of exposure. He hated the eyes on him, the greedy little cunts that looked at him with horror when they were no better. He wasn’t a very honourable man, but these people. These fucking thieves and rapists looking at him with contempt? That boiled his blood. Their pathetic little whispers, such as “Look at his face”, and “Seven hells, what a hideous creature.” made him want to knock their teeth out on the curb.  
“Oi, you!” called a drunk. “Come have a drink.”  
The Hound looked around, hoping he was talking to somebody else.  
“Yes, you. The tall angry man, with the weird neck.”  
Sandor felt his jaw twitch slightly at that remark, yet slightly thankful he didn’t mention his face. “Why don’t you just do everyone a favour and piss off?”  
The drunk scoffed, swaying slightly. “I just wanted to drink with someone. No need to be a fuckwit about it.”  
Marching over to the drunkard, Sandor clenched his hand into a fist, stopping when the man pulled out a satchel of coins.  
“Buy you a meal? You can punch me afterwards?” the drunk said in a playful tone. Ripping the satchel from out of his hands, the Hound snarled, a wave of anger rising from his throat.  
“If you ever think about making me your friend again, I’ll slice your balls from your body.”  
The man quivered, slumping onto the floor. “I’m sorry. Mercy?” He strung together his mouth hanging open.  
“I apologize for my brother.” A swift voice came from across the market. “It’s been a while since he’s left the wall, and I imagine he hasn’t had much ale since then.”  
The man was tall, almost as tall as Clegane himself. He wore the usual outfit that you would find on a brother of the night's watch, save for the big wool coat. He had no longsword as a man of his height would, but he instead had two broadswords wrapped around his waist. Much like Sandor, he had a scar on his face. Not as easy to distinguish, just a cut, about 7 or 8 inches down the side of his face.  
“Morrin Sand. Brother of the night's watch and hoping for your forgiveness.”  
“Fuck off bastard. You,” Sandor pointed to the sworn brother who was currently lying in the dirt, “You stay out of my way and get on back to whatever part of your wall you came from.”  
The man nodded. Satisfied, Clegane turned to leave, still clutching the satchel, before Morrin intervened.  
“I suggest you return that pouch to my brother. Unless of course want to be brought in front of someone well above both of our ranks and stations, to explain why in the hell it would even cross your mind to rob a sworn brother of the night’s watch blind, threaten his life and those the lives of those around him, and then try to just walk away. Even if the man was inebriated, that is no reason to rob him.”  
“He annoyed me. So I took his money. What does your kind need gold for anyway? Not like you can rent whores or buy pretty dresses since you took the black.”  
The man nodded, agreeing with Sandor. “Still, theft is theft, and unless you plan on joining us at Castle Black, take a coin from the pouch, for your troubles and give poor Oren here back his gold.”  
Pondering on it for a while, Sandor chucked the pouch back at the drunk.  
“I don’t want to see either of you cunts ever again,” Clegane growled. As he marched away, the voice of the one called Morrin was heard barely throughout the busy street, if you could even call it that.  
“The offer of a drink still stands,” Morrin shouted. His voice dripping with charisma. Continuing to groan, the Hound walked away, his eyes full of disdain.  
“What a curious fellow,” Oren drunkenly mumbled.  
The Sword of the Morning couldn’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Just asking for any advice or help because I don't fully understand the entire world of ASOIAF. Let me know if you spot any contingency errors. That would be much appreciated. 
> 
> I'm looking for weekly uploads and it's hard moulding an already difficult world into one where you're in control, but I'll try my hardest to make this work for you guys. The weekly uploads thing has also reduced the number of words and POV's I can add in a single chapter, but I'm going to the beach house this weekend, where I can think, read some of the novels, and just write as much as I can in the moment. 
> 
> I'd like to thank you all for waiting and actually reading my story. And I hope the next few chapters will be long and interesting, also I'll be jumping around a lot, so let me know if you have a favourite character you want me to focus on a tad more, bring into the story or just give a POV role. I look forward to writing about Petyr Baelish (Littlefinger), like the way he is as a person is just so interesting and fun to write. Who knows? He might even pop up next chapter.
> 
> Until then, enjoy your week!
> 
> Sincerely, LukasJames.


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